Chapter Text
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The bases emergency comm shrieked to life— not the usual polite chime, but Fowler's specific emergency override, the one reserved for Decepticon human interference.
Ratchet's servos froze mid-calculation, abandoning his project as every line of his frame went rigid. There goes what was so far a peaceful afternoon with the kids still in school. Typical.
"Autobots." Fowler's voice carried the brittle edge of a man who'd mainlined coffee instead of sleep, with enough hours under his belt for an early retirement he would never accept. "We have a situation."
Optimus had been at his workstation when the comm shrieked, his back to the command center. The emergency override drowning out the sound of Arcee screeching far too quickly into root mode, tires still radiating heat from her patrol route. Bulkhead emerged from the storage bay, frame dusty from organizing equipment, wiping his servos on his thighs as he approached. Behind him, bumblebee hopped down from his crate where he had been reviewing patrol logs with a questioning beep.
"What kind of situation?" Optimus inquired as they gathered around the station.
Fowler's face filled the monitor. His jaw clicked. Clicked again. His hand moved off-screen, and the monitor flickered.
"This kind."
The image resolved slowly.
A striking purple figure rolled onto their stomach, a spreading glide of smooth thighs showing off the sight of an artificial phallus buried deep into a plump valve, presenting the camera with a wide view of their pert aft exposing the way their valve sank down on the false shaft.
"What the—" Bulkhead started.
"OnlyFans." Fowler's tone was funeral-flat. "Two weeks active. Forty-seven thousand subscribers. Every single video features what appears to be a giant alien robot, and my superiors are asking questions as to why this is important I don't have answers for."
Ratchet's vocalizer produced a sound like grinding gears. Bumblebee's optics flared wide, a cascade of startled beeps spilling out.
Fowler's eyes locked onto Arcee.
"Arcee. I need you to tell me right now if you have any knowledge of—"
"WHAT?"
The word detonated from her vocalizer. Heat flooded her lines, a flash-fire of mortification and rage that whited out her HUD. "You think—you actually think that I—"
"The figure is feminine." Fowler's voice carried something that might have been apology if it weren't buried under accusation. "The build, the frame type—"
"Matches WHAT?" Arcee surged forward. Bulkhead's plating clinked as he shifted. "The assumption that because I'm the only femme on this team, I must be the one—"
She couldn't finish. Her vocalizer locked.
"Arcee—"
"That is NOT me!" The words tore out, trembling with fury. "I have never—would never—do you have any idea what you're suggesting? That I'd compromise everything we've built, every security protocol, our entire existence, for—for internet attention?"
The implications crashed through her processor. Every careful measure. Every sacrifice to stay hidden. And Fowler's first thought was her.
"Agent Fowler." Optimus's voice cut clean through the static. Quiet. Immovable. "I can assure you that Arcee would never engage in such activities. I can personally account for her whereabouts over the past two weeks."
"As can I." Ratchet's tone could have frozen energon. "Regular patrol schedules. Multiple missions. Every briefing. Unless she's developed the ability to bi-locate, your theory is impossible."
Fowler's hand scraped over his face. The sound was audible through the comm. "Look, I had to ask. The build similarities—"
"Are superficial." Arcee's voice came out cold enough to hurt. "That bot is larger. Different proportions. The paint job is—" Her gesture at the screen dripped contempt. "—completely wrong. Did it occur to you that there might be other explanations before you decided I'd—"
"You're right." Fowler's hands came up, palms out. Surrender. "You're absolutely right. I apologize, Arcee. That was out of line. The pressure's no excuse."
Silence crystallized between them. Sharp. Brittle. Arcee's plating remained flared, her field crackling. Bulkhead looked like he wanted to disappear into the floor
"So none of you know who this is?" Fowler asked.
Optimus's head moved slowly. Negative.
"We were unaware this account existed until this moment."
"Great." Fowler pulled up more images. Each one more bewildering than the last. "So we have an unknown Cybertronian operating in U.S. territory, broadcasting to tens of thousands of humans, and none of us have any idea who they are or what they want."
"Decepticons?" Bulkhead offered.
"Possible." Ratchet's anger cooled into analysis. "Though I can't fathom the strategic advantage. Unless it's misdirection?"
Arcee's optics cycled. Her thoughts should have been on the security breach. The exposure risk. The threat.
Instead: Fowler had looked at those videos and seen her.
"We need to find them," Optimus said. "Before this escalates. Agent Fowler, can you trace the account?"
"Working on it. Whoever's running this knows their way around digital footprints. I'll keep you posted."
The comm went dead.
The Autobots stood in the kind of silence that follows explosions. Finally, Ratchet's vocalizer clicked.
"For what it's worth, Arcee, none of us suspected you. Not for a nanosecond."
She managed a stiff nod. Couldn't trust her voice. The anger was draining now, leaving hollow exhaustion in its wake.
Somewhere in the Nevada desert, a mystery bot was causing chaos with purple paint and a camera, and she was going to personally catch them. Fragging glitch.
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[Three weeks ago]
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Energon was hard to safely gather alone—that much Starscream had learned. But it was infinitely easier than now- T-cog-flightless, grounded without the speed and mobility of a two- or four-wheeler to compensate for what you'd lost. Grounders might be forever banished from the sky, denied the freedom of flight that was a Seeker's birthright, but at least they had something. At least they could race across terrain, tackle obstacles, cover distance at speeds Starscream could never hope to achieve in root mode alone.
Ah, what he wouldn't give to fly again—to feel the wind resistance against his wings, to soar above this wretched planet's surface.
Or—Primus help him—even just the ability to drive.
The thought made him shudder with disgust and desperation in equal measure. What had they reduced him to? What had Megatron's cruelty stripped away, piece by agonizing piece, until Starscream was left as little more than a shell of his former glory? Who was he to toss him aside-
The Harbinger offered no salvation. The derelict warship lacked any energon reserves whatsoever, its stores long since depleted or plundered. And Starscream didn't have the strength—couldn't muster the raw endurance—to trek in the complete opposite direction to track down the ship's bow half, which lay somewhere in some wretched organic forest kilometers away. The very thought of that journey exhausted him.
So here he sat, starving in the stern section, slumped against a cold metal bench, wallowing in self-pity and the gnawing ache of depleted fuel tanks. At this rate, his fate was sealed. He was doomed to be offlined here, alone and forgotten—a once-great mech dead within a once-great ship. Terribly poetic, really. The sort of tragic ending that would have made for excellent gossip, had anyone been around to witness it.
In a fit of frustrated restlessness, Starscream kicked his back thruster against the solid metal of the bench. The impact produced an unexpected clicking noise, and suddenly the flat surface was extending, sliding outward and pushing his pede forward as hidden mechanisms activated. He'd unknowingly triggered some kind of storage compartment.
Hope fluttered in his chest—a desperate, fragile thing accompanied by the involuntary flutter of his wings. He glanced down with optics wide, eagerly anticipating supplies, tools, maybe even a forgotten energon ration—
And then he screamed in outrage.
"FRAG TOYS?!"
Interface toys. A whole fragging box of them. He was standing at death's door, one pede tip into the Allspark, and this is what Primus saw fit to grant him—the discovery of some previous occupant's personal collection of false spikes and valve stimulators.
The indignity of it all was almost too much to bear.
Starscream hurled the box against the far wall with all the strength his weakened frame could muster, then paced an angry circle in the cramped space, his cooling fans whirring with impotent rage. But then another thought struck him, one that made his plating crawl with horrified embarrassment: he would rather publicly make out with a Vehicon—in front of Megatron's entire army—than have his offlined body eventually discovered here, surrounded by scattered interface appendages like some jestered fool.
With a disgusted vent, he began picking up each toy, gathering them one by one with all the dignity he could scrape together. His servos closed around various shapes and sizes until his hand curled around one in particular—a specific slim, elongated purple spike that was achingly familiar in shape and proportions.
Starscream froze, staring at it.
His fuel tanks were empty. His systems were screaming for energon. Stress had wound his struts so tight he could barely think straight. And here, in his servo, was a distraction. A release. Something to make him feel anything other than the crushing weight of failure and abandonment.
Before he could overthink it—before his better judgment could intervene—he found himself bent over the control panel, desperately chasing away the accumulated stress of the past months, seeking relief in the only way available to him.
When it was over, Starscream slumped against the console, thoroughly exhausted. His tanks registered even lower on fuel now, the overload having burned through precious reserves. He felt empty, achy, and distinctly uncomfortable—sticky in places he very much did not wish to feel sticky. His entire frame trembled with post-overload tremors as he straightened, trying to regain some semblance of composure.
As he shifted, his arm brushed carelessly across the console. The contact set the entire panel alight, systems flickering to life in a wash of purple illumination that cast his red optics in an eerie nebula of color. Connections sputtered, fought for stability, then gradually strengthened.
Starscream's optics widened. The ship still had power—limited, but functional.
His claws flew across the interface without conscious thought, instinct and training taking over. He rerouted channels, bypassed damaged systems, and reached out beyond the ship's hull to hack into a nearby satellite. His technique lacked Soundwave's elegant precision—that mech's skill was frustratingly unparalleled—but Starscream possessed enough expertise to brute-force his way through the digital barriers. He rerouted the signal through the Harbinger's systems, slowly coaxing more and more functionality back online.
The ship's scanners became operational. It took several kilks of careful calibration, but eventually the sensors painted a picture of the surrounding area. And there—there—a small cluster of energon signatures, not too far from his current location.
The retrieval nearly killed him. Every step was agony, every movement a battle against systems on the verge of stasis lock. But somehow, through sheer stubborn refusal to die in such an undignified manner, Starscream managed to retrieve the energon and drag himself back to the Harbinger.
With his tanks no longer completely empty—still dangerously low, but no longer critical—and his processor a fraction clearer, Starscream returned to the console. He messed further with the ship's systems, curiosity driving him now. If he could reach satellites, perhaps he could access more. Perhaps he could connect to human systems, learn what was happening on this planet while he's banished.
The human internet unfolded before him like a chaotic tapestry of information—most of it utterly useless jargon and incomprehensible social rituals. He scrolled through page after page out of pure curiosity and what he would never, ever admit was desperation for any kind of connection to the outside world.
Then he stumbled across something interesting: a site for dealing goods. A marketplace.
Starscream's optics brightened. He typed in "rocks," then refined his search to "crystals." He scrolled and scrolled through listings of worthless minerals until—
Bingo.
He could always count on humans stumbling across things they could hardly comprehend. There, listed for sale among quartz formations and geodes, was unmistakably energon. Raw, unrefined, but genuine Cybertronian fuel. And the humans selling it had no idea what they possessed.
Starscream understood the concept of currency well enough. Shanix might have been reduced to worthless piles of scrap metal with the fall of Cybertronian civilization, but the principle of exchange remained universal. The problem was that he had no idea how humans acquired their version of currency. He had nothing to trade, no goods to barter, no way to simply take what he needed without risking exposure.
He typed a new search query into the interface: "income."
The results that populated his screen would change everything. [OnlyFans]
What had started as simple photos—static shots that barely earned a handful of views—had evolved into something far more elaborate. Videos came next, short clips that garnered a modest following. But it was the live streams that changed everything. The real-time interaction, the immediate feedback, the intoxicating rush of attention flooding in from thousands of viewers simultaneously. That's when Starscream discovered he had an audience hungry for more.
Tonight marked his fourth consecutive stream this week. He'd been at it for over an hour now, positioned beneath the carefully arranged lighting rig he'd constructed from salvaged equipment. The camera angle was perfect—he'd tested it obsessively—capturing the elegant curve of his spinal strut as he rolled onto his stomach, spreading his freshly painted purple thighs to display the artificial spike buried deep within his valve. The position presented the camera with an unobstructed view of his pert aft, the smooth plating gleaming under the lights as his frame sank down incrementally on the false shaft.
He'd been edging himself for the past forty minutes, dancing on the precipice of overload, his valve cycling and clenching around the intrusion as copious amounts of lubricant leaked down his thighs in glistening rivulets. The mess was intentional—his viewers ate it up, their donations flooding in with every desperate whimper he allowed to escape his vocalizer. Tonight's goal was ambitious: if they reached the donation threshold, he'd unveil his "special surprise"—a fucking machine he'd painstakingly constructed from materials purchased with his influx of human currency. The engineering alone had taken him three cycles to perfect.
The distinctive chime of an incoming donation cut through his concentration. Starscream's hazy optics flickered toward the monitor displaying his chat feed, scanning for the username. He'd developed a little game to encourage higher donations: any amount over fifty dollars earned the privilege of having their name written somewhere on his plating in permanent marker. The names would join the collection already decorating his frame, a temporary gallery of desire.
He shifted his weight, sinking down fully to the base of the spike with a deliberate wiggle of his aft as he reached for the marker. His servo clasped around it, uncapping the instrument with practiced ease as he focused on the display name.
His fuel lines went ice-cold.
Soundwave.
The name stared back at him from the screen, innocuous text that sent his processor into a cascading panic spiral. For a long moment, he simply stared, his ventilations stuttering as his systems struggled to process the implications. Soundwave. Soundwave. The Decepticon communications officer, Megatron's most loyal surveillance expert, the bot who monitored everything—was watching him. Had donated to him. Was in his chat right now.
His servos trembled slightly as he brought the marker to his thigh, carefully swirling the letters across the ink-covered plating. He had to maintain the performance. Breaking character now would be suspicious. With exaggerated slowness, he completed the name—Soundwave—in elegant script along his inner thigh, then ground his hips down with a hiss that was only partially manufactured. He capped the marker, set it aside, and began rocking his frame in slow, deliberate motions.
The collection of names scattered across his plating was always satisfying to observe afterward, when he stood before the mirror he had dragged into the ship. The messy scrawl of usernames—declarations of want, desire, desperate need to possess him—covered his scales like claims of ownership. But they were temporary, ephemeral. They meant nothing. Every single name would wash away in the drain along with purple paint.
Another donation notification pinged—a smaller amount this time. Starscream let his gaze drift toward the chat feed properly now. The messages scrolled past rapidly: praises both vulgar and sweet, compliments on his frame, demands for different angles, desperate pleas for him to overload. His automated moderation algorithm filtered out the truly vile comments, leaving only the acceptable worship for him to read. Humans were truly fascinated by such a complex mode of CGI, oh, if only they knew the truth.
He shimmied his hips upward with a low, synthesized groan, lifting until just the tip of the spike remained inside his valve, then sank back down in one smooth motion. His processor kept circling back to that name on his thigh.
Soundwave could watch. But he wouldn't know.
The thought became a mantra, steadying his fraying nerves. Soundwave was watching the stream, yes—but so were forty-seven thousand other accounts. He was just another anonymous viewer in a sea of admirers. There was no way to connect this purple-painted mystery bot to Starscream, former second-in-command of the Decepticons. The camera angles never showed his face. His voice was modulated. The paint disguised his distinctive plating. His location was carefully obscured.
He had no way of knowing.
How could he?
Starscream forced his attention back to the stream, to the climbing donation counter, to the performance. He would finish this session, clean himself up, and deal with the implications later.
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Soundwave stood before Megatron's throne, his posture rigid and precise. The surveillance footage compilation he'd prepared played on the multiple screens floating in the air between them—carefully edited clips that conveyed the necessary information while sparing them both from the more... explicit details.
Megatron's optics narrowed as he watched the purple-painted figure pose against desert rock formations.
"Explain," he commanded, his voice a low rumble of controlled irritation.
Word flickered across his screen ^Unknown Cybertronian: operating on Earth,^ Soundwave reported, filtering through several saved clips to present the information. ^Location: Nevada desert. Activity: broadcasting to a human internet platform. Viewer count: increasing exponentially. Current subscribers: forty-seven thousand three hundred and twelve.^
"And you bring this to my attention because...?"
"Security concern: unknown bot operating in Autobot territory. Motivation: unclear. Identity: unknown." Soundwave paused, his visor flickering. "Frame configuration: indeterminate. Paint scheme: purple. Speculation: possible rogue Autobot, neutral party, or—"
"Or what?" Megatron leaned forward, his massive frame casting shadows across the screens.
"Decepticon origin: cannot be ruled out."
The silence that followed was oppressive. Megatron's servo curled into a fist, then slowly relaxed as he processed the implications. A Cybertronian—possibly one of his—broadcasting their existence to thousands of humans. The exposure risk he couldn’t be bothered to care about but the damage it could do to reputation-
"You're telling me," Megatron said slowly, "that somewhere on this planet, one of our kind is... performing... for the local primitives?"
"Affirmative."
"And you discovered this, how, exactly?"
Soundwave's visor dimmed slightly—the closest he ever came to visible discomfort. "Routine surveillance: human internet traffic. Algorithm flagged: Cybertronian frame detected. Investigation: required."
"Mmm." Megatron's optics bored into him. "And how long have you been monitoring this... situation?"
"A week." He chose Knockout's voice specifically.
"A week." Megatron's voice dropped to a dangerous register. "And you're only informing me now?"
^Initial assessment: low priority threat. Further observation: necessary to determine intent and identity. Conclusion: situation requires command decision.^
Megatron rose from his throne, moving to examine the screens more closely. The purple paint. The carefully framed shots. The deliberate angles that concealed not just the bot's face, but any distinctive identifying features. His processor churned through possibilities, each more troubling than the last.
"Frame analysis," he demanded. "Who does this match?"
^Comparison: severely limited. Facial structure: concealed. Distinctive markers: obscured by paint. Voice modulation: detected. However—^ Soundwave pulled up a wireframe comparison. ^Build proportions: analysis suggests femme configuration. Hip structure: wider ratio. Shoulder span: narrower. Limb proportions: consistent with femme frame type. Probability: seventy-three percent femme identification.^
"A femme." Megatron's tone shifted, calculating. "That narrows our options considerably."
^Affirmative. Known femmes in region: limited. Autobot roster: Arcee—primary suspect based on location and frame type. Decepticon roster: no active femme operatives in Nevada sector.^
Soundwave paused, his visor flickering with additional data. ^Alternative Decepticon hypothesis: Airachnid. Last known status: rogue operative. Whereabouts: unconfirmed. Frame type: compatible with observed proportions. Behavioral profile: consistent with attention-seeking activities.^
"Airachnid." Megatron's voice carried a note of dark consideration. "I hadn't considered that particular nuisance. She would certainly be capable of such... theatrical displays."
^Affirmative. Airachnid: known for dramatic presentation, manipulation tactics, and disregard for conventional operational security. Purple coloring: not standard but within plausible paint modification range. Conclusion: three primary suspects—Arcee, Airachnid, or unaffiliated neutral femme.^
"So you're telling me this is probably one of Prime's, or possibly our own rogue spider?"
^Probability assessment: Arcee—forty-two percent. Airachnid—thirty-one percent. Unknown neutral—twenty-seven percent. Analysis: insufficient data for definitive identification.^
Megatron's optics narrowed. A femme Autobot, broadcasting herself to humans—or worse, Airachnid running yet another of her unpredictable schemes. The implications of either scenario were... interesting. Arcee was the obvious candidate given her operational area, but Airachnid's love of games and manipulation made her an equally viable suspect.
"The humans," Megatron said. "Do they suspect the truth?"
^Analysis: divided. Majority consensus: computer-generated imagery. Minority position: elaborate costume. Actual truth: not considered plausible by human standards.^
"And the Autobots?"
^Unknown. No detectable awareness. Surveillance: indicates no investigation initiated by Autobot forces. Hypothesis: if subject is Arcee, operation conducted without command knowledge. If subject is Airachnid: neither faction currently aware.^
Megatron's optics flared.
"Double the patrols in that sector," he ordered. "I want surveillance on every square mile of Nevada desert. Focus monitoring on known Autobot routes and Arcee's patrol patterns specifically. Cross-reference with any Airachnid sightings or unusual activity patterns. If this femme is one of theirs, they will be identified and promptly left alone. If it's Airachnid..." His optics darkened. "Then we have an entirely different conversation to have. And if they're neither..." His servos curled into fists. "Then we have a more interesting problem."
"Understood." Soundwave paused, then added, ^Additional concern: donation revenue. Unknown femme: accumulating significant human currency. Current monthly estimate: exceeding twelve thousand dollars.^
Megatron's optics widened fractionally. Twelve thousand. For this.
"Find her," he said flatly. "I don't care if you have to monitor every grain of sand in that desert. Find her, identify her, and report back to me immediately. If it's Arcee..." A predatory smile curved his lipplates. "Prime will have quite the mess to clean up when we reveal this little discovery. If it's Airachnid... well, she and I will have words about unauthorized operations."
"Affirmative."